


Sangfroid

by miominmio



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BDSM, Bloodplay, Breathplay, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, Fucking, Jim is a Little Shit, M/M, Murder Husbands, Origin Story, Sexual Violence, basically porn with some plot, mormor, tiger - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-05
Updated: 2016-04-05
Packaged: 2018-05-31 13:25:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6471697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miominmio/pseuds/miominmio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sebastian Moran works as a war photographer to be close to the war without participating in it. Jim Moriarty controls his league of mercenaries from his HQ in Namibia. Inevitably, they meet. Flirtation, confusion and hot sex ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sangfroid

**Author's Note:**

> This chapter contains violence (in particular of sexual nature, all of it is dub or fully consensual), strong language (lots and lots of swearing, and I mean lots of it) and explicit sexual content. If this is triggering to you or if you aren't comfortable with the subjects covered in this piece of fiction, I would firmly advise you not to read this fic. 
> 
> I am an avid fan of mormor and so this is my second contribution to the fandom. I hope you like it, and if you do (or even if you don't) don't hesitate to let me know, whether by leaving Kudos or leaving a comment. I appreciate the time you take to leave feedback, it means everything to me. 
> 
> Without further due, enjoy!

Dying in the middle of the Congolese rainforest for a couple of photographs had not been what Sebastian had meant by a “fun photography trip”.

But, you know, fate had a cruel sense of humour.

So, here he was, with his hands pressing down on the bullet wound in his side, skin caked in blood and earth, the muscles in his abdomen contracting ever so often as he struggled through the thickets and the groves. He clutched at vines and the meaty leaves of ferns, spraying the green with red, and stumbled over the twisted roots snaking over the ground.

Shit had really hit the fan, this time. His camera lay abandoned miles behind, and if the soldiers weren’t the complete morons Sebastian assumed them to be, they’d picked it up by now. A fine specimen of DSLR it had been, as well. The loss of it stung more than his injury.

But he had the SD card taped to his dog-tags and the photographs that could be found on it were worth more than his life, let alone a _camera._ If they didn’t make front-page or at least the very first pages, Sebastian would strangle his editor, bullet-wound and all.

It was the only thought that managed to spur him on as he ascended the hill to the spot where grass met sky. As he climbed ever higher, the continuous humidity of the forest began to lift and he breathed in heavy gulps of air like a drowning man.

There, holding on to the ladder dangling from the copter, Sander Osei from _The Guardian_ was waiting for him dressed in a pristine suit, the _fucker._ His eyes shone in the golden light of afternoon and the fabric of the shirt _strained_ just enough over his arms that even in his misery, Sebastian thought to himself that it ought to be illegal to look that _good_.

“Close call,” said Sander as he put an arm around Sebastian’s waist to secure the straps of the ladder.

Sebastian winced by a sudden ugly pain and thought about the previous time Sander had put an arm around him - to console himself.

“If it means… you can hold me close, maybe… I should… make it my habit,” drawled Sebastian and his speech was slurred.

Wrapped in a tight embrace, Sebastian’s blood a painting on Sander’s thousand thread-count shirt, the ladder began to lift them up to the copter, carrying them through a torrent of wind. The coolness felt sweet on Sebastian’s fever-hot skin and he closed his eyes.

Sander’s laugh was the last he heard, deep and throaty, warm like sun-hot stone. “Even while you’re dying, you can’t resist a flirtation.”

And Sebastian passed out before an answer formed on his tongue.

 

* * *

 

 

“No.”

“Sebastian…”

“No.”

Sebastian raised his eyebrows and breathed in the smoke, deeply, then put the cig out in the ash-tray. “It’s not happening; no. I don’t give a shit about the money. Tell him to fuck off.”

As the editor of foreign correspondence, Miles Olson had a constant crinkle in his forehead as if his face was made of paper. It would not surprise Sebastian if that were the case – he imagined Miles had ink in his veins in the stead of blood and a miniature printing press where the heart ought to be.

The crinkle deepened as Miles tried – and failed – to stare him down.

“Listen, Sebastian. This is…”

Sebastian stared out over the street bathing in the violet, vibrant light of streetlamps and a setting sun. Distantly, beyond the music of buskers and bumble of traffic, he could hear the crash of the waves of the ocean.

“I’m not a prostitute, Miles. You can’t expect me to sell myself out for anybody who asks.”

Miles frowned. “That’s not what I was implying and you know that, Sebastian.” His voice was burdened with hidden resentment.

Hm. Sebastian had evidently been wrong in assuming that Miles had already forgotten about their illicit encounter in Tobago several months ago. He certainly hadn’t forgotten. If he breathed in deep enough, he could still smell the Egyptian cotton and Davidoff of Miles’ skin.

“Sebastian,” Miles began again, resolutely. “Jim Moriarty is a key player in the ongoing investigation of Namibian exploitation by North American infrastructure investors. Yes, _he did_ ask for you for a private photoshoot, but this gives you the unique opportunity to ask a few questions.”

Sebastian didn’t look at him, then. He focused his attention on a young woman a few tables away with the smoothest hair he had ever seen. It was easier to trace her contours with his gaze than to absorb what Miles was telling him.

“You know what you sound like?” he interrupted Miles suddenly. “You sound like the very bureaucrats you’re trying so hard to condemn. I should have seen sooner that you’re full of shit.”

It came out more bitter than he had intended it to.

Fuck it.

Miles’ eyes darkened as if someone had burnt the dulce de leche colour of his eyes. Sebastian stared at him and noticed the disarray of his brown-silk hair, the bluish tinge of his skin.

He almost felt pity in that moment.

Almost.

Miles reached into the inner pocket of his suit jacket and brought forth an envelope that looked suspiciously like…

“This better be a joke, Miles…”

It wasn’t. There was a ticket inside the envelope – return Luanda-Windhoek Windhoek-Luanda. Departure tomorrow at daybreak.

Sebastian felt how even the most minute of muscles in his face twitched. His whole body was tense, strung as tight as a bow, the week-old wound in his side aching. If he needn’t be close to where the fighting was at out of absolute necessity, he’d flip Miles off in this moment and leave. Maybe even leave him with a shiner as a parting gift…

But he needed Miles. He needed Miles to ensure that Sebastian could enter the battlefield. Only Miles knew how to work around a dishonourable discharge that marred Sebastian more than any of his scars were able to.

Miles was his loop-hole, and damn him for that.

“They’ll be waiting for you at Hosea Kutako International,” Miles deadpanned, and Sebastian’s hands curled into fists.

But of course he couldn’t do anything. He lit another cig and let the smoke unfurl inside his lungs.

“You sit there as smug as you like,” he hissed eventually and looked straight past Miles, the cigarette crumpling between his fingers. “But one day, you might find yourself at the wrong end of a barrel, mate, and when that happens, don’t expect me to hesitate for one second to shoot.”

One last time, he looked his once lover in the eye, relishing in the glimmer of fear he could see in the molten brown.

Then he left with the tickets and made a point of not looking back.

 

* * *

 

 

After the incident in Congo, Sebastian now could proudly claim that he had survived four gun shots during four separate circumstances. But the latest one had marked him in a different way, leaving a spidery trail of scars over the expanse of skin beneath his ribcage. At the centre of the web sat a large deep-red scar that reminded him eerily of a brand. He found himself constantly scratching at it, as if he subconsciously wanted to tear it off.

Before he embarked on his journey to Windhoek, he bought a tunic made of black, scratchy linen that was a loose fit over his lean torso, a stark contrast to the tight, white T-shirts he usually wore.

If anybody would have claimed in that moment that he was self-conscious of his scar, he would have broken their jaw.

Not because they were wrong.

But nevertheless he was grumpier than usual as the plane sailed onto the landing strip of Hosea Kutako in one smooth gliding motion. A brand-new Sony of the Alpha-series bounced against his side, causing the old pain to flare up again in short bouts. He’d only packed a night’s worth of clothing in his gym bag, meaning to stay in the capital after the photoshoot was over before he flew home to Pretoria.

Honestly, he couldn’t wait for that moment.

Come home to his flat where the lovely Nia with her sunshine smile waited for him and where the dogs were eagerly anticipating his return. No doubt they’d throw themselves at him before he’d get over the threshold.

He lost himself in that dream for a moment too long and almost missed the young man waiting in the arrival hall with a sign with Sebastian’s name on it.

“Mr. Moran?” he asked as Sebastian approached, his expression made unintelligible by the enormous sunglasses covering half of his face.

Sebastian grunted a reply.

“Would you please come with me?”

As if he had a fucking choice.

With the slouch of a teenager having to fulfil a tedious chore, Sebastian trudged after his guide out of the air-conditioned airport and into the oven that was the outside.

The sky was mercilessly blue, and the sun filled the world with its glare like an empress. Sebastian stood and glared at orange dust swirling in the air for a moment as if it had personally affronted him.

On the curb waited a sand bike with a shiny chrome chassis. The young man replaced his sunglasses with a helmet and straddled the bike, and from then on it was obvious what was expected of Sebastian. Who didn’t mind getting closer to the man who by all mean’s looked like he had a swimmer’s body beneath his leather jacket.

The bike ripped away from the pavement with the roar of a panther, speeding its way through the orange landscape. There was no one quicker than them on the road – even the odd sports-car among the myriad of rusty Volkswagens and Volvos couldn’t compete and the wind that whipped Sebastian’s hair back blew the sweat right off his skin.

Even as the sky turned blue as cornflower, the bike was still making its way through the country with the two men perched on its spine. The roads turned grittier, the traffic disappeared almost entirely, and the bike was completely unfazed by it all.

They sailed over sand dunes the size of storm waves and the cosmos with all of its stars and nebulae opened up above them.

It was getting cold, properly cold. Sebastian shivered in his tunic. He waited to see a building on the horizon, an oasis, _something_ , but they simply kept going up and down the dunes as if there was nothing else in the world, the only illumination coming from the headlight of the bike.

Sebastian fought the temptation to doze off. His whole body was stiff as corkwood, his stomach grumbling for food and throat aching for water. They’d stopped several times along the way so that Sebastian could take a piss and stretch his limbs, but despite Sebastian’s protests, the young man urged him to carry on.

Not for the first time Sebastian wondered why he put up with this crap. He hated himself for being so dependent on Miles and the job. He could put up with a fair share of humiliation, but… ought not enough be _enough_?

Then again, all miseries have an end, Sebastian came to realize, as he found himself breathing in the salty air of sea. They ascended a particularly steep dune and when they were at the top, he saw the desert abruptly end and the ocean begin.

That was in itself a miracle. But Sebastian saw something else, as well.

“Well… fuck me sideways.”

The building was the best example of architectural innovation that he had ever seen. Raised on a foundation of wide concrete pillars that looked solid through and through, by all appearances reaching deep into the sandy base, a mansion had been erected in a postmodernist-style with bay windows and asymmetric design. Sebastian could see shutters over every single surface of exposable kind, ready to be mounted in the case of sand storms.

It looked very, very cool, and very, very expensive.

Sebastian’s guide parked the bike at the base of one of the pillars and Sebastian got off, grateful to at last have reached the end of the journey, but also angry at this mysterious “Jim Moriarty” for dragging him so far away from the capital.

The young man handed him an electrolyte drink and a protein bar retrieved from his satchel.

Sebastian, who had been hoping for a banquet awaiting him at his destination for his troubles, nevertheless received the food with gratitude.

“You’ll need your strength for your appointment with Mr. Moriarty,” said the guide, his voice muffled by the helmet still obscuring his face. Sebastian had a sneaking suspicion that he was not supposed to know the identity of this man. Add his cryptic comment to the equation and the situation was becoming increasingly bizarre.

He emptied the bottle and finished the bar in one bite. The guide put the rubbish back in his satchel and pointed at a ladder attached to the opposite pillar, leading up to the “porch” of the mansion.

“Goodbye…?” said Sebastian hesitantly, as he watched the guide climb back onto his bike and make his way over the dunes again before Sebastian had even had the chance to come to terms with this situation.

Well, _fuck._

He’d been through Afghanistan and yet he still wasn’t uncomfortable being left alone like this in the desert in front of an expensive mansion which held God knew what within its walls. After all, Sebastian had been _personally_ requested for a photoshoot.

But food and fluid had served to strengthen his resolve, if at least _a little_ , and so Sebastian made his way up the ladder and toward the large glass door of the building.

Behind the door, the hallway lay dark and empty.

The door slid open automatically to allow him entry.

Sebastian stepped inside. And immediately all oxygen left his lungs as if he had stepped into a freezer. The air was colder, much colder than it had even been during the night in the desert. It stung on his skin, froze his limbs into rigidity. Such temperatures weren’t comfortable even when dressed in layers upon layers of thermal clothing.

Even more worrying still, was his lack of welcome.

The hallway he had entered stretched on without a single object of furniture and only a set of doors at the very end. There wasn’t even a single lamp in the ceiling – the only light came from the glass door, drowning the hallway in a bluish, eerie glow.

_Fucking hell_ , if Sebastian hadn’t been creeped out before, he sure was now.

And as if that thought had been a cue, the doors at the end of the hall suddenly slid apart and a man cast in shadows stepped out.

His voice drifted over to Sebastian like a lazy roll of black water: “Hi. Jim Moriarty.”

 

* * *

 

 

A shiver ran up and down Sebastian’s spine. Despite his exhaustion, despite his frustration, he suddenly felt a hundred per cent alive and aware, hypersensitive to his surroundings, taking in the smooth surface of the walls around him, the bullet-proof quality of the glass behind him… the danger of the man in front of him.

Why did it feel so familiar, the alertness that had so suddenly come over him? Why was he so…?

“You must be _so_ exhausted after your long journey…” Jim’s was a Dublin drawl with its own singular flavour: the syllables extended and stretched, the words musically intoned with an underlying layer of asperity that cut like razors.

Oh.

_Oh._

Sebastian was back in Kabul with the trigger pressing into his index finger, the smell of gunpowder replacing the oxygen he inhaled, with only seconds to spare to kill the man behind a machine gun firing at his squadron. The heat was a slap in the face and the blood rushed in his veins the speed of sound, and _fuck_ , but it had never felt this good before.

Jim Moriarty caused an instant short-circuit in Sebastian’s brain, and in his presence Sebastian had become a soldier again.

If Sebastian had known all those years before, those desperate days after the discharge, that there was a man out there with the capability of incorporating all of what the battlefield made Sebastian feel, he would never have taken up a camera.

He must have stayed silent a long while as he processed this, because Jim cocked his head in a reptilian fashion, the bones cracking audibly in the quiet. Sebastian still couldn’t see him, but he could _feel_ his presence, magnetic and warning all at once.

“Sorry,” said Sebastian clumsily, colour rising up his skin,” I am a bit tired … after the journey… like you said… Um, I’m Sebastian. Sebastian Moran.”

Fuck. Why did he have to sound like a schoolgirl with an infantile crush?

But then he was too preoccupied to utilise his brainpower when Jim stepped out of the darkness and began to advance on the stricken ex-soldier.

With his coal-black hair like combed-back feathers, and eyes that seemed to suck energy rather than emit any, Jim was undeniably attractive. But his skin was just a shade _too pale_ and his smile was void of emotion. He wore his expensive midnight-blue suit in the casual manner with which one wears sweatpants and a T-shirt.

As he came ever closer, Sebastian could smell a hint of peppermint in the air.

“Yes,” purred Jim,” I know who you _are._ And I have to _say_ , you are much more than I allowed myself to imagine, _Se-bas-ti-an._ ”

When Sebastian felt a slight light-headedness at the mention of his name in Jim’s whimsical-dark tone, he decided that he had gone far enough. His signature scowl returning to his expression, he tried to maintain an air of nonchalance.

Of course, if Jim was what Sebastian thought he was, he would see right through it.

And he did.

“Trying to play hard to get, baby?”

Jim’s eyes glittered darkly. He was only an arm’s-width away from Sebastian now, so close that Sebastian could have stretched a hand out and felt whether Jim’s skin was soft or as hard as it looked, like white marble with a faint hint of a blue web of veins running beneath it. Sebastian felt a stirring below his waist and tried his best to ignore it. Jim looked like the man who’d kill you while he fucked you.

The thought did little to stifle Sebastian’s attraction.

He cleared his throat and made sure his voice was even and unaffected as he spoke: “About this photoshoot… Should we get on with it?”

“Photoshoot,” Jim echoed, as if he had completely forgotten the reason he had called for Sebastian. He _giggled_ suddenly, a strangely obscene sound in the heavy air surrounding them. “Yes. Well. Follow me up then, _pet._ ”

“Sorry?”

Sebastian had never been called _pet_ before, and it simultaneously aggravated and turned him on.

Jim, who had been in the process of turning and heading down the hall, turned to face Sebastian again. He had his eyebrows raised. Something in his gaze made Sebastian’s stomach plunge.

“Did I stutter?”

His voice was barely above a whisper, deceptively soft with an undercurrent of carefully concealed irritation. He was shorter than Sebastian by almost a head, and seemingly not particularly muscular. And _yet…_

Then again, Sebastian didn’t have a poor sense of self-preservation.

He lacked it altogether.

“I’m not your _pet_!” he growled.

In any other situation it would have sent his adversary scuttling off with his tail between his legs. Sebastian had made seasoned warriors tremble with barely a word.

But Jim wasn’t a warrior. He didn’t even seem to be entirely _human_. He gave Sebastian a smile colder than the temperature.

“Aren’t you?”

Having asked that in a flat, disinterested tone, the shorter man stuck his hands in his pockets and sauntered over to the door, which slid open for him with a gentle “swish”. Behind it, a spiral staircase was concealed, made of a transparent, barely visible material, almost like glass. And Jim made his way upstairs without a single look back at Sebastian.

As if he expected Sebastian to trail behind like a puppy.

Sebastian lingered for a moment in the hallway, seething. What was it with all these ass-hats treading all over him like he was something nasty stuck to the edge of their shoe?

Ultimately though, Sebastian knew he didn’t have much of a choice. Turning around and heading back over the desert was a sure-fire way of securing his death. Besides, who could guarantee that Jim wouldn’t drag him back to this cold, lifeless house of his?

Rubbing absent-mindedly his newest scar, Sebastian finally pulled himself together and made his way over to the staircase.

As he climbed the stairs, he became aware of the sound of soft music flowing down from somewhere above him. Opera, he guessed. It made him think of his childhood home… Augustus in his tall chair, always with his back to Sebastian, Wagner screaming from the speakers. Somehow the music was always accompanied by the crystalized sound of breaking glass and the soft noise of his mother’s whimpers.

_Fucking Wagner_ , he thought, and finally reached the end of the stairs.

The space he found himself in was incredibly large and incredibly open. Sebastian saw only two doors, to the right of the staircase. The rest was one big room, high in ceiling, and with bay windows covering the entirety of the wall facing him.

Yet for all its size, the only furniture was a settee and a painting hanging on the wall to his left.

The painting was massive, framed in expensive-looking gilded wood, depicting a 16th century dame, the richness of her emerald-velvet dress still looking realistic after five hundred years. If Sebastian knew anything about 16th century art, he knew that her face was full, smooth as mother-of-pearl – well, he could only _assume_ it was full and smooth, because on this painting her face was obscured by a streak of neon-pink spray-paint.

Jim was lounging on the settee with one foot over its spine, his eyes fixed on the breaking waves visible from the window. The sun had only just begun to rise, casting a mystical, milky light over the ocean.

Combined with the sound of opera, “ _e pur l'ultimo sospir, caro nome, tuo sarà”,_ it made Sebastian feel like he was suspended in that unnerving state between sleep and lucidity.

He brushed it off as an urgent need to rest.

He should have known better.

As he approached, Jim turned his head slowly, pinkish light creating a false appearance of vigour in the stead of pallor on his face. His eyes seemed to devour Sebastian, taking in the blond stubble on his chin, the grey scar running from the bridge of his nose down to the edge of his mouth, the aquamarine glimmer of Sebastian’s eyes…

When his gaze began to travel further south, Sebastian felt the urgent need to say something, put a stop to this psycho-sexual examination of Sebastian’s appearance in any way possible.

“My editor told me you’re the chairman of the United Nations Commissioner of Corruption Investigation in Developing Countries,” he blurted out.

The edge of Jim’s mouth curled upwards. “Am I really?” He sounded inappropriately amused, as if he was listening to a particularly droll anecdote.

As if he was hearing this for the first time.

_Damn Miles_ , Sebastian thought bitterly, _damn him to hell._ He was losing control of the situation with every second that passed without any idea of how to get out of this clusterfuck.

It didn’t help that Jim was playing with him like a cat might play with its food before devouring it.

“Aren’t you?” he asked just to make sure his voice was still working. He was distantly aware that he was gripping his camera like a drowning man might grip a rescuing hand.

Jim batted thick, dark lashes. “I can be anything you want, _dar-ling…”_

Sebastian stared at him, mind blanking.

“The photos?” he managed to squeak out, cringing at how weak he sounded.

This time Jim’s smile was predatory with a flash of teeth, which looked like they could sink into Sebastian’s skin as if it were butter. Even his voice was a low, sexual rumble: “I thought you’d never ask.”

He swung his leg around from the spine of the settee and balanced it over the knee of his other leg instead. Looking at Sebastian from under his lashes, he proceeded to unbutton the first two buttons of his dress shirt, revealing chalk-white skin underneath, and finished the look by giving his silken tie a violent tug to look more dishevelled.

“Am I selling _sex_ yet?” he asked, his voice dripping with maliciousness, and smirked cheekily at the confused Sebastian. “What’s the matter, _dear_? I thought you were here for a photoshoot?”

Sebastian had not even thought to raise and turn his camera on. He looked at the device in his hands forlornly, pleading for answers it could not give him.

“Now, now, _Se-bas-tian_ ,” Jim murmured, snatching the ex-soldier’s attention back. When their eyes met, Sebastian felt invisible threads of control ensnaring him like rainforest vines. “Don’t pout – it doesn’t do your pretty face justice.”

Sebastian shook his head, more to unscramble his thoughts than to signify dissent. “The photoshoot was a ruse, wasn’t it? My editor – Miles, he lied to me… Why am I really here?”

Jim’s expression was glacial now. It was fascinating how he could change colours so quickly, a chameleon of a man he was. His eyes like chips of black ice cut straight through Sebastian:

“19 minutes.”

Sebastian felt like he had a missed a crucial move on a chessboard. “What?”

“19 minutes. That’s how long it took you to _understand_.” Jim closed his eyes for a moment, pinching the bridge of his nose and it would have been entirely convincing if it weren’t for the slightest of grins ghosting Jim’s lips. “They really do not pick the brightest for the army, do they?”

“Fuck off!”

It slipped out before Sebastian could help it, used as he was to brawling both at home on the isles and abroad. He could often not go a week without breaking some assclown’s nose. A gift of heritage of ill temper by Augustus.

He might as well have said any kind of nonsense for all the reaction he received from Jim, who simply looked at him with predatory hunger, as if Sebastian was a particularly juicy cut of meat.

“Why am I here?” repeated Sebastian with more bite to his voice, bite that he did not feel.

Jim pretended to inspect his well-manicured nails. “Well, see – here I was, lil’ ol’ me with something of a _dilemma_ on my hands. My poor old sniper Stevens had fallen down one flight of stairs too many and so I was obviously one sniper short.” He smiled fondly, as if he was remembering some golden memory. “And I thought to myself – hmm, where can I buy myself a new one? I took my trolley and ran over to the army shop to see if they had anything on sale.” Jim’s face crumpled in mock sorrow. “Imagine my disappointment when I arrived and all the good deals were gone. I guessed that I would just have to _wait.”_

Sebastian had no idea what was unfolding before him at the moment but he also couldn’t stop staring at Jim acting out his little story.

The Irishman folded a hand over his chest. “They say all good comes to those who wait. And so it was for _little me_. One day I was minding my own business when I found out that one of my employees, Miles Olson, had been _very, very naughty_ -”

Miles…

Despite himself, Sebastian felt the bitter taste of betrayal on his tongue. _I trusted you, and you just fucked me over. You’re just like the rest, no matter what you said that night in Tobago…_

“Miles thought he could outsmart me, the silly little man,” Jim purred, with his eyes taking in every expression flashing over Sebastian’s face. “So I decided to make a visit to his sweetheart in Stockholm. But _here’s the best part_ – in his desperation to save his girlfriend, Miles offered me _you._ ” A pink tongue darted out between his teeth to wet his lips. “Maybe I had underestimated him. He obviously knew what buttons to push in me. Long story short, I came up with this funny story to lure you here, _Colonel Sebastian Moran, son of Augustus Moran._ ”

Sebastian must have forgotten about it, because he once again became aware of the coldness of the air. He inhaled a lungful of it and it froze the tender lining of his lungs.

With the lazy gait of a jungle cat, Jim got up from the settee and wandered over to Sebastian. In the meantime, the sun had risen outside and brilliant light flooded the room, casting a halo over the orderly, black mess of Jim’s hair.  

A halo on a demon. Fitting.

“It’s alright,” Jim whispered into Sebastian’s ear, his breath tickling the sensitive skin of his neck. Sebastian barely dared to move.

“I’m only offering you a job, _pet._ And I can promise you an entry bonus if you take it.”

Sebastian turned his head ever so slightly to indicate that he was listening.

Jim’s lips ghosted over Sebastian’s jaw. “I’ll give you Miles’ head on a silver platter.”

Sebastian shuddered involuntarily, and the blood in his veins rushed south. He was in the most fucked up situation of his life, and instead of it causing him to panic, it was _turning him on_.

If he had been clear of mind and not _needy_ in that moment, it was possible that he would have reached a different decision about the offer. Everything about Jim Moriarty was a disaster waiting to happen, and Sebastian knew that he would be collateral damage if he agreed. But as it was, he could not imagine anything more lucrative than working as a _sniper,_ re-familiarizing himself with a proper gun again instead of working a camera.

“What about the dishonourable discharge?” he asked, trying to distract himself from the man who was practically nuzzling his neck.

There was a puff of air as Jim laughed. “Oh, _honey._ You’ve seen this house; you’ve heard my story – can’t you make your own deductions about my profession? I eat dishonourable discharges for breakfast!”

With that, his tongue darted out and licked the shallow space between Sebastian’s collar bone and shoulder.

Sebastian shivered again, closing his eyes for a moment. He’d gotten off on less, in the past.

“OK.”

“Hmm?”

“I’ll take it, the job. I’ll take it.”

“Wise choice,” Jim murmured, and there was no surprise in his voice. He’d probably known all along that Sebastian would agree to the offer – Sebastian was simply _that_ kind of person.

All at once – to Sebastian’s great disappointment – Jim retreated from his newly hired employee. A flush had appeared over his pale cheeks and a lock of coal-black hair dangled over his eyes, which – dark, with a hint of whiskey-brown in the morning light – travelled freely over Sebastian’s shape.

“You can’t even imagine what I want to do with _you_!”

“Fuck me?” Sebastian suggested, unable to hide his arousal anymore. It was plain from the rigid shape in his trousers and his blown pupils that he _wanted_ , _needed_ Jim.

Jim combed through his hair with his pale fingers, his gaze relentless as it explored Sebastian’s every feature and surface of skin. “That, too. I had something much _messier_ in mind, though.”

Sebastian breathed in deeply, tried to regain control over himself. “What now? Do I sign some contract, or…?”

Jim laughed and it was the first genuine laugh Sebastian had heard from him in the half hour they had known each other.

Christ, _half an hour._ In half an hour Sebastian had discovered he’d been tricked into coming to this madman’s house, then agreed to work for said madman. And now-

Now it all seemed to point to one thing.

“Oh, _tiger_ ,” Jim drawled and despite what he was coming to understand about the Irishman, Sebastian nevertheless felt like something he thought had been buried deep was unearthed before him. “I don’t _do_ contracts. Were you any other goon, I would have kicked you out by now.” His forehead creased for a moment – he looked _physically pained_ – as he stared at some point just beside his new marksman. “But you are just too _delicious_ to ignore. I can’t just let you go without leaving _a mark._ ”

Sebastian took his words as a cue to move forward and place a hand on Jim’s waist. The fabric was cold and smooth beneath his fingers, and he wondered what Jim’s skin would feel like. What it would _taste_ like.

Quick as a viper, Jim gripped Sebastian’s hand and twisted it with a strength he didn’t physically look like he possessed.

The sudden pain brought Sebastian to his knees with a cry. He realized, as he cradled the sprained wrist to his chest, that he had read the signals wrong. His experience told him that men dominant in their professional positions usually liked to be submissive in bed.

Clearly, with Jim, that was not the case.

Jim looked like he couldn’t care less about hurting Sebastian as he stared at the kneeling man. But where he managed to convey apathy in that respect, he couldn’t quite hide his excitement.

“Strip!”

The order cut through the pain fogging Sebastian’s mind, triggering within him the conditioned reaction to obey. He pulled the tunic over his head with his good hand and tossed it aside. Following that, he removed his trousers, and all at once he was kneeling on Jim’s cold concrete floor in only his pants.

Jim clicked his tongue, his eyes raised disapprovingly as he stared at the fabric still covering Sebastian’s crotch.

Pulse accelerating, Sebastian removed his last piece of clothing, his last security. It was stupid to feel so vulnerable – Sebastian was still _strong,_ still _deadly_ – but somehow he didn’t feel that way. The goose-bumps on his arms and legs were a testament to this.

Jim’s eyes widened as he absorbed the newest addition to Sebastian’s collection of scars. What Sebastian had felt so self-conscious about, Jim seemed to enjoy beyond what could constitute as decent.

Suddenly, Jim slipped a butterfly knife out of his pocket. It gleamed in the sunlight, and in Jim’s hands it looked more like an _extension_ of him rather than an accessory.

Sebastian couldn’t stop the natural reaction that overcame him. His stomach flipped, and he scrambled up and away from Jim. After all, the unspoken rule sounded: _don’t bring a naked body to a knife fight._

Jim followed Sebastian’s flight with languor in his step, tilting his head ever so slightly as he came ever closer. “Don’t fret,” he said in a quiet, calm tone,” I will make this as enjoyable as it is painful.”

Sebastian wondered if Jim had killed people in this manner, all graceful and dark and oozing _sex_.

He didn’t have time to formulate any other thought as Jim side-stepped around him and opened one of the two doors left of Sebastian.

“Go on,” he prompted gently and again, Sebastian obeyed, finding himself walking into the largest bathroom he had ever seen outside of a communal building.

The dark, glittering tiles covering the floor cast half of the room in shadow, even as Jim turned on the spotlights in the ceiling. It had been decorated sparsely, only the necessities available: a sink, a toilet, a floor-to-ceiling mirror which Sebastian avoided at all costs and a shower area the size of Sebastian’s whole living room in Pretoria.

It was quite an eloquent design – instead of one single showerhead for the whole surface, there were small holes drilled into a block of stainless steel hovering over the floor. The walls were singular in their fashion, as well – covered as they were in ivy-like plants which Sebastian recognised from the rainforest. All in all, the room created an impression of standing in the rain in the middle of the jungle.

Jim pressed a button on a control panel to the right of the door and water began to pour out of the stainless steel box.

Sebastian was softly pushed into the shower, and Jim followed close behind, suit and all.

The water was colder even than the general temperature of the house. It numbed Sebastian inside and out, turning the blonde strands of his hair into icicles and his fingers into fish-sticks. The only benefit that came from the cold was that his wrist ceased to throb, and he was grateful for that.

Dripping wet, Jim looked like the most handsome of nightmares as he pushed Sebastian into the wall, his fingers carding through the blonde’s hair and his knife balancing gingerly over Sebastian’s collarbone.

Their lips met in a kiss of which the heat made all the cold seem insignificant. It was fire and ice – two extremes of one sensation, both causing Sebastian’s brain to short-circuit as Jim worked at his lip, his tongue. Jim’s wet suit clung to both of their skins and when Sebastian tried to unbutton the shirt of the other, the hold on his hair tightened.

Satisfied with the discovery of Sebastian’s mouth, Jim moved on to his throat and his ferocious kisses evolved into bites that left marks on the sensitive skin. Briefly, Sebastian felt teeth clamp over his jugular and froze, terrified of causing irreparable damage. Then Jim left the artery alone and licked the indentation between Sebastian’s collarbones.

The cold was slowly, but surely impacting Sebastian’s motor skills. He felt slow and clumsy as he let Jim violently explore his body, but strangely, he was still able to keep his erection. Not even when his muscles turned to butter did it falter.

“My tiger,” whispered Jim, quiet enough that Sebastian almost missed it over the sound of falling water. It was in a sensual tone that Jim spoke, full of warmth and enthusiasm. If Sebastian had been naïve to believe it, he would have mistaken Jim’s possessive behaviour as a sign of affection.

Of course, not even somebody who had been born yesterday would have mistaken the knife as a symbol of love.

The tool in Jim’s hand came into play too soon and too suddenly as Sebastian felt a fiery pain flare up just under his jaw. He’d been too distracted by the hand in his hair and Jim’s lips over his sternum that he had completely forgotten about the knife, but as soon as he was reminded of its bite, he made sure to keep it in mind.

Best to behave properly and keep his hands to himself.

All of a sudden it appeared within Sebastian’s field of vision as Jim placed the knife just under his eye.

Sebastian felt like his pulse was loud enough to be broadcast over the whole world.

“ _What is a tiger without its stripes?”_ Jim sang in a voice too jolly, and cut Sebastian diagonally over his cheek.

Sebastian saw the blood on Jim’s knife and hands before he felt the sting. Cold water mixed with beads of red and splashed onto the tiles.

What in the actual hell had he gotten himself into?

And why did he _enjoy_ it?

At once, Jim let go of his hair and without the extra support, Sebastian sank down into a sitting position on the tiled floor. He was getting exhausted by the constant onslaught of icy water.

Jim looked feral and very much awake, however. He cast the knife aside and – to Sebastian’s great surprise, proceeded to take his shoes, socks, trousers and pants off.

Even in his dizzy, agonised state, Sebastian could appreciate how _big_ his boss was.

There were no preparations as Jim went on to straddle him, no lube, not even fingers to open himself up. The water somewhat eased the process, but even so, the friction must be painful. Sebastian suspected that Jim simply enjoyed it that way as he grabbed Sebastian’s shaft and pressed the tip of his cock against his own opening.

Sebastian’s world flashed red-white as he felt himself slowly inch deeper into Jim. He felt like moaning. He felt like crying. _Oh God,_ but it felt so good. Being pushed to his limits in this way – with the cold and the cuts, and Jim’s warmth… Bliss surged through him like electricity, rewiring his brain, rearranging the organs in his body.

Jim rode him with ceaseless vigour. Sebastian could barely see in the state he was in, but he thought to catch an expression of pure ecstasy upon Jim’s face. And if his new boss’s laboured breathing was anything to go by, Jim was enjoying this as much as Sebastian was.

“Fuck,” he cried out, all self-control leaving him each time that Jim pushed himself onto his cock. “ _Jim!”_

Jim brought a hand up to Sebastian’s throat, his fingers cutting off Sebastian’s air-supply at the same time as he leaned in to give him a sloppy, biting kiss.

“My _Seb_ ,” he breathed into Sebastian’s mouth.

Sebastian was thrown over the edge. His vision whitened completely and his body tensed as his orgasm pulsed through his very core.

The pleasure, the pain, the cold, the asphyxiation and _Jim_ , lovely and murderous Jim – became too much and on the cusp of his release, Sebastian fell into a beautiful and a relaxing darkness.

 

* * *

 

 

He woke for a moment to find himself cocooned in a heap of frette towels and smooth-as-silk bed linen. Everything was bright and fluffy and warm.

A gauze bandage covered his face and his jaw. Sebastian wondered how it had gotten there. He didn’t bother to inquire, though. It didn’t seem urgent. He simply wanted to sleep again.

A face appeared close to his, a pale face framed by feathery black hair and with two coaly eyes staring back into his.

“Hello,” Sebastian mumbled.

“You’re conscious again,” replied the black-haired face and it smiled fondly at him. “Not for long though, it would seem.”

“Mhhmm.”

Sebastian was already fading away but he felt a light kiss being planted on his forehead.

“Sleep well, my tiger. Think of me…”

 

 


End file.
